How Nancy Drew Saved My Life Read Online Free

appeal of a dressy dress, I at last settled on a sensible plaid skirt and short-sleeved turtleneck I found in the back of my closet. I had no idea where these garments came from, could not for the life of me remember purchasing them, but when I looked in the mirror I saw they were doing the trick. Adding my mother’s pearls and unassuming flats to the picture, even though the flats gave me none of the height I so badly needed, I was ready to roll.
    But first I had to run the gauntlet of Aunt Bea’s children.
    â€œYou look boring,” said Joe, the oldest at fifteen. “I’d never date you.”
    â€œThat’s a hideous combination,” said Elena, thirteen.
    â€œWho would ever wear pearls with plaid?” sniffed Georgia, nine.
    I was tempted to tell her that I was pretty damn sure Nancy Drew would wear plaid and pearls on an interview—hell, Nancy, who always wore gloves when she went out, but for entirely different reasons than why I ever did, would have undoubtedly worn gloves, too—but I didn’t want her to think I was crazier than she already clearly thought me. Plus, I still awaited Aunt Bea’s verdict.
    She looked at me long.
    â€œI…like it,” she finally said.
    And that scared the shit out of me more than anything that had gone before.
    When someone whose taste you don’t respect thinks that whatever you are wearing is the bee’s knees, chances are you’re making a fashion faux pas from which your image is unlikely to recover.
    I grabbed a leather bag, black with brown suede trim, that was more satchel than purse, and was gone.
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    The living room I was led into by an actual liveried servant was big enough to fit Aunt Bea’s entire first floor into and it was quickly obvious that someone around here had an overly enthusiastic appetite for French furniture. Not that I’m particularly heavy, carrying no more extra baggage than the obligatory all-American extra ten, but when the servant indicated a Louis-something chair to me, and I felt the skinny legs wobble back and forth on the slippery marble floor beneath me, I found myself wishing for something more sturdy.
    Mrs. Fairly turned out to be as old as Aunt Bea looked, with a staid black dress and her own pearls on—ha! Thank you, Nancy Drew!—that somehow reflected back the glow of her bluish white hair. She also carried an extra twenty pounds to my ten and was shorter than me, which is always a shocker.
    I’ve spent my life thinking of my height more in terms of the technical—“I am a short person”—rather than in practice, because I’ve always felt taller and indeed all my life have been told, except by my family, that I don’t look that short, and that I have a much taller personality, whatever that means; even people who remember the commercials I made as a child, upon meeting me, never fail to comment, “You didn’t look like a short child!” Again, whatever that means.
    â€œWhat religion are you?” she asked.
    I would have guessed it was against some kind of law to ask a prospective employee about religious affiliation, unless of course you were hiring a bishop or a rabbi, but questioning the legality of her business ethics right off the bat hardly seemed the best tactic to secure me the position I wanted.
    â€œJewish,” I said.
    â€œI see,” she said.
    I wondered what she was seeing, endeavored to at least look like I was waiting patiently for some kind of elucidation.
    â€œIt’s just that,” she hesitated, “Iceland is such a…not-Jewish place.”
    â€œIs that a problem?” I asked, wanting to kick myself even as the words were leaving my stupid, stupid mouth. Did I want the job or didn’t I? Why raise the issue, why say the word problem for her? Let her do it if she was going to do it.
    â€œOh, no, no,” she pooh-poohed. “I mean, after all, with that hair alone, not to mention